The Sheriff's Nine-Month Surprise

She narrowed her gaze, not sure if his question was a legitimate guess or a subtle insult. “Four years.”

He seemed surprised by that revelation. “Four years and you’re not completely disillusioned yet?”

“My determination to fight for justice doesn’t blind me to the flaws in our system.”

“That’s...admirable,” he decided.

She slid the strap of her briefcase onto her shoulder. “You’re a prosecutor,” she guessed.

“No,” he said quickly. Vehemently. “I’m not a lawyer.”

“So what do you do, Not-a-Lawyer Reid Davidson?”

“I’m a sheriff.”

She nodded, easily able to picture a shiny badge pinned to that wide chest. “And you throw the book at anyone who doesn’t toe the line in your jurisdiction.”

He didn’t deny it. “It’s my job to uphold the law.”

“The law doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” she argued. “It requires context.”

“Apparently you have some strong opinions on the subject,” he noted. “Why don’t we continue this discussion elsewhere, and you can enlighten me?”

She absolutely wanted to continue this discussion—or any discussion—if it meant spending more time with the broad-shouldered sheriff with the mesmerizing eyes and sexy smile.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, determined to play it cool despite the anticipation racing through her veins.

“I could buy you a drink,” he suggested.

She considered herself a smart woman—too smart to hook up with a stranger. But while she didn’t know even the first page of Reid’s life story, she knew that he set her blood humming in a way that it hadn’t done in a very long time. And after more than two years without a man even registering a blip in her pulse, she was too curious to walk away without determining if the attraction she felt was reciprocated.

She wasn’t looking for love. She wasn’t even looking for sex. But she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed looking at Sheriff Reid Davidson.

Sometimes you don’t know what you want until it’s right in front of you.

With the echo of her sister’s voice in her ears, she made her decision. “A drink sounds good.”

* * *

Reid had never been afraid to admit when he was wrong, and he’d realized—less than halfway through the workshop discussion—that he’d been wrong about her.

Katelyn.

The name struck him as a unique combination of the classic and contemporary, and as intriguing as the woman herself. Because while she might look prim and cool, there was a lot of heat beneath the surface. She argued not just eloquently but passionately, making him suspect that a woman who was so animated in her discussion of a hypothetical situation would be even more interesting up close and personal. Now he was about to find out.

There were two bars in the hotel—the first was an open lounge area that saw a lot of traffic as guests made their way around the hotel; the second, adjacent to the restaurant, was more remote and private. He opted for the second, where patrons could be seated at pub-style tables with high-back leather stools or narrow booths that afforded a degree of intimacy.

He guided her to a vacant booth. When the waitress came to take their drink order, Katelyn requested a Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon and he opted for a locally brewed IPA, signing the check to his room when the drinks were delivered.

After the server had gone, he raised his glass. “To stimulating discourse.”

Though she lifted her brows at his deliberately suggestive word choice, she tapped the rim of her glass against the neck of his bottle.

“Where are you from, Sheriff Reid Davidson?” she asked, after sipping her wine.

“Echo Ridge, Texas.”

“You’re a long way from home,” she noted.

“So it would seem,” he agreed. “How about you?”

“Northern Nevada, so not quite such a long way.”

“Humboldt, Haven or Elko County?”

“You must have aced geography in school,” she remarked.

“I didn’t ace anything in school,” he confessed. “But I recently visited the town of Haven.”

“Why were you there?” she asked, then held up a hand before he could respond. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Why don’t you want to know?”

“Because almost everyone in Haven knows everyone else—or at least knows someone who knows that someone else, and if it turns out that you hooked up with someone I know, this—” she gestured from her own chest to his and back again “—isn’t going to happen.”

“Is this—” he copied her gesture “—going to happen?”

She sipped her wine. “I’m thinking about it.”

“While you’re thinking, let me reassure you that I’ve never hooked up with anyone from Haven.” His lips curved as he lifted his bottle. “Yet.”

She set her glass on the table, her fingers trailing slowly down the stem. “You’re pretty confident, aren’t you?”

“Optimistic,” he told her. “But I do need to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Is there anyone waiting for you at home in Haven?”

“Aside from my father, grandparents, sister, two brothers, several aunts, uncles and cousins, you mean?”

“Aside from them,” he confirmed.

“No, there’s no one waiting for me.” She traced the base of her wineglass with a neatly shaped but unpainted fingernail. “What about you, Sheriff Davidson—are you married?”

He shook his head. “Divorced.”

“Girlfriend?”